


Better Places

by E_Wills (orphan_account)



Category: Tangled (2010)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-20
Updated: 2017-02-20
Packaged: 2018-09-25 17:54:05
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,814
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9835916
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/E_Wills
Summary: A brief journey into Eugene's past, and how his outlook has changed going into the future.





	

Not too long ago, in the grand scheme of things, dreams had been childish things—naïve, wide-eyed pursuits of impossibilities. They were nebulous hopes, fluid or fixed; and there was not a crueler thing for those who had nothing. Dreams were a crutch to which the desperate and the have-nots tightly cleaved, offering just enough strength and support to keep them from falling, but not enough to help them walk on their own. Dreams were crippling.

Truth be told, until very recently, Eugene had hated the word. If anybody asked, he did not have “dreams.” He had aspirations—goals, as he like to think of them—perhaps a bit lofty, but still obtainable. Those insipid fantasies of love and home and _belonging_? Youthful optimism for happiness and fullness of spirit had been left neatly on his pillow at the orphanage. They now belonged to the other kids, along with an old and worn copy of _The Tales of Flinnigan Rider_. He had aged out of such things—or so it had been decided for him.

 The day he left the orphanage, he had set out to establish himself—as who or what, he did not know. Anything or anyone was better than lonely Eugene, who had been betrayed by his dreams.   


He had been ignorant of the simple fact that the world was stacked against him. His books had never mentioned the inherent disdain for the poor and downtrodden. Heroes always swooped in to lift up those who needed it—but enough doors slammed in his face, and enough nights of an empty stomach, had taught him the limitations of fiction. Reality was a greater teacher in one week than a whole sixteen years under the compassionate neglect of a harried headmistress.

 To be penniless was to be worthless—and Eugene had quickly learned the true meaning of both words. The world wanted nothing to do with someone with nothing to offer in return.

 So, it had started with one apple, amid sickening hunger pangs. No one had seen him take it. His initial guilt was assuaged by the crisp joy bursting over his tongue. His stomach rejoiced at even a meager serving. How sad it was he stooped so low: common thievery. Eugene was better than that.

 Eugene was also worthless.

 So _he_ was sent back to the orphanage—trapped behind those heavy doors that had closed with such finality—and Flynn Rider was born.

 Of course, Flynn was a complete fabrication; a disingenuous façade. But he had something to offer: his wit, good looks, and quick hands. Never would he go hungry. Never would he be in want of anything. Not like Eugene, who had once put stock in such silly things like hope and dreams. Those things had put him on the fast road to nowhere. Flynn was a self-made man by comparison—one with ambition, and enough moral ambiguity to achieve his ends. The world was not going to do him any favors, so he took what he wanted, what he needed—and Eugene only whispered in his ear often enough to be mildly annoying.

 Yes. Flynn was going places: sometimes a tavern, sometimes jail—but the scenery always changed. He did not have dreams, but he had goals. He had desires. They varied according to the day, location, and local valuables to be had; small cobblestones in the path to peace of mind. For when he finally got there—the end of the road—he would have a home and fortune; because those things had always leapt from the pages of his storybook. Flinnigan Rider had security and admiration for his status and belonging—particularly from an orphan who would never go places. Most importantly, Flynn did not want attachments to anyone. The fruits of his dubious labor were not to be shared; new people, new disappointments.

 So, he kept on chasing his goals, his material aspirations, through towns and hamlets; and through two different pairs of boots and a few black eyes that _might_ have been warranted. He met people, left people, and used those who sought to use him first. Years upon years of schemes and smooth talking…until he rather fortuitously heisted a crown, which led to chase by a horse, ultimately leading to an old tower hidden deep in the wood like it had been forgotten by time. It had to be at least a hundred years old, and it was oddly well preserved—like that meadow was its own bubble, unconcerned with the goings-on of the larger world, nor the problems of a passing thief.

 Why he had bothered to climb it was anyone’s guess—including his own. There were no stairs that he could see, and he had failed to consider how he would get back down; he was impulsive, many times to his own detriment. Perhaps it merely serendipity, or perhaps fate was more absolute than he thought? Either way, it had been the best poorly conceived decision he had ever made.

 It had brought him to Rapunzel…

 He tried not to fidget, in the King’s grand study. It was adorned with decorations that might have once tempted his twitching fingers, but no longer. The cold stare of the guards prickled the back of his neck. They knew he was out of place, and _he_ knew he was out of place—and he was not entirely sure they would not arrest him before he could speak to Rapunzel again. He was only there by the good graces of the King and Queen. Finding their daughter had been enough to absolve him of his crimes, but he was not sure if that was just a temporary arrangement. He could not stay in the castle. It would be but one more thing to come between him and Rapunzel— _Princess_ Rapunzel.

 That was going to take getting used to. Could he address her by just her first name? Surely, after everything they had been through together, they were well past formalities.What were the rules of decorum and propriety when kisses had already been well exchanged?  


“Eugene?”

The soft call of his name was almost lost in the rattle of armor as the guards snapped to attention. His throat went dry and his heart thundered inside his ribs. There was a part of him that was afraid to turn around, to see the Lost Princess, worried he might not recognize her.

But there was the other part of him that had awakened just _for_ her—like she was his sunlight, washing over him at dawn. That part of him was powerless, for Rapunzel has reached deep inside him—she had opened those heavy old doors and led orphan Eugene out into the world. She had taken him by the hand and gently brushed Flynn Rider aside. She had showed Eugene the world of his storybooks—bright and beautiful and wondrous. Full of dreams.  


So he turned. His breath caught—Eugene was awestruck and Flynn Rider was nowhere to be found. He had dissolved back into the ether from which he had materialized.

Eugene fumbled for something to say. “You look—I—Wow,” he stammered, smooth as ever. Irresistible, really.  


Rapunzel smiled and she was no less golden with her short brown hair. “You don’t think it’s a bit a much?”

She twisted her hips and her dress fluttered around her ankles, but with weight of more sumptuous fabric than she was used to. It shimmered in the light, but even that dulled in comparison to crown atop her head, refracting the sun’s rays into color swatches dancing across the walls when she turned her head just right. She wiggled her toes inside her shoes. That was new. It was a stark departure from an old dress and dirty bare feet—a sort of quirky, whimsical charm Eugene had come to love. He was relieved he could still see her under all of that prim and polish.    


When she looked up at him, her green eyes shone with earnest. She searched his face, and he gave her a reassuring nod through his dumbstruck fog and flip of his stomach.

She was a princess and he was a thief, and _how_ was there any kind of path forward?

His approval seemed to please her, though he was not sure why his opinion mattered. She was radiant with or without him, but there was a soft anxiety to her brow—an uncertainty of her new role. Undoubtedly, years of Mother Gothel’s chiding echoed in her mind. It was a shame that some like Rapunzel—so good and so honest, had to carry around the burdens of a twisted mind. But she had a _real_ family again. She belonged somewhere. Dreams she did even know she had, had come true.

Dreams. There was that word again. Yes, a short time ago they had seemed childish—but that was Flynn’s perspective. Eugene had a different outlook—he had always had a different outlook—and Rapunzel had stepped in to embrace his vulnerabilities. She dared to believe in Eugene Fitzherbet, so he had dared to believe in her. She looked past his swagger into his worthlessness, and he had looked past her hair, her appearance, into her loneliness. They had pulled each other up onto a small, cozy platform of happiness. It was cramped, but it was theirs.

Eugene cleared his throat. “So, I should probably, what…find a room at the inn or something? I imagine it might be hard. A lot of people came to town, what with the festival, the beer, the food, the dancing, the beer, the lanterns, the beer—“

Rapunzel cocked her head. “The inn?”

“Right. You’re a princess.” His smile was strained, followed by vague laughter. “I’m definitely _not_ a princess, nor royalty of any kind, so…”

She reached out and took his hand. Her slender fingers squeeze gently, though there was resolve in her grip that was mirrored in her eyes. “I don’t know if you realized this, but I tend to hold on to my dreams.”

Eugene was taken aback for a moment, but then a warmth spread out from his chest. It was reminiscent of the golden flower’s magic coursing through him, healing him and giving him new life…until he brushed it off with a playfully flippant shrug of his shoulders. “I guess you have a pretty solid record.”

Rapunzel just rolled her eyes with a little grin that reassured him that she was still there, she was still her, and they were still them. A day would come when they had to define what _them_ meant, but it would not be that day, nor the next. Eugene would have to answer some hard questions, but for a while still, he could dream—just dream. For once, it was a good thing.   


For  once, his dreams were taking him better places.


End file.
